


The Spider and the Fly

by damnslippyplanet



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Early-Season-One-Ish, Will Is A Sassy Puppy, cooking as therapy, hannibal is a manipulative jerk, murder antici, pation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 08:19:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5368190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnslippyplanet/pseuds/damnslippyplanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little season one vignette - cooking as therapy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spider and the Fly

**Author's Note:**

> _Will you walk into my parlor?” said the spider to the fly;_   
>  _“’Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy._   
>  _The way into my parlor is up a winding stair,_   
>  _And I have many pretty things to show when you are there.”_   
>  _“O no, no,” said the little fly, “to ask me is in vain,_   
>  _For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.”_   
>  [Mary Howitt, "The Spider and the Fly"](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-spider-and-the-fly-2/)   
> 

Hannibal’s house contains a wide and striking variety of expensive works of art, but there’s nothing in the place he would enjoy looking at as much as he’s enjoying watching an irritable, sweetly fevered Will Graham make a mess of his kitchen. It’s uncharacteristic - he’s eaten people for less - but after all, he’d known this would happen when he made the suggestion. It’s impolite to blame someone for a situation you engineered them into.

 _Death is everywhere I look these days_ , Will had said, pacing the office restlessly, eyes haunted and darting as if Garrett Jacob Hobbs might be hiding in any corner of the room. _I’m afraid to close my eyes at night._

And Hannibal could have made any number of suggestions but somehow he’d ended up on _You need a focus for all this restless energy. You need to create something to counterbalance all that destruction in your daytime activities._

Will had rolled his eyes delightfully behind his glasses and mumbled something about not being a creative person, not a musician or an artist, imagining death his only creative talent. Hannibal had said something about food being a creative endeavor that anyone can participate in. Something about kneading pasta dough as an excellent way to work out tension. Something about a good meal with a friend as life, not death. 

He doesn’t remember the exact words; all he was really saying was _walk into my parlor_.

Will being Will, he had grumbled and dissembled and complained and yet, two days later, had turned up at the appointed time on Hannibal’s doorstep, bottle of wine in hand, for an extra therapy session in the form of a cooking lesson. His showing up was expected; the wine was not. Always a surprising twist, the profiler falling easily with the gentlest of pushes but never precisely in the expected direction. 

Will Graham is turning out to be the most fun Hannibal’s had in years. 

And so here he is in Hannibal’s kitchen, liberally dusted with flour and transferring it to any surface within three feet of him, including his own face, working the pasta dough tentatively. In a minute Hannibal will lean in closer than strictly necessary, part of his ongoing pastime of pushing Will’s boundaries to see how readily they bend and how beautifully they break, and he’ll encourage Will to work the dough harder. In a minute. He takes a moment to watch first.

Hannibal isn’t unaware of the enjoyable spectacle of a pleasantly muscled pair of forearms working in the kitchen. He’s not above using it himself, if there’s someone he wishes to distract. That doesn’t mean he’s entirely immune to it either, and there’s a certain aesthetic pleasure in watching Will’s arms and fingers working the dough. He’s too gentle but his arms look strong and his hands callused from work; he can be taught firmness, if that’s what Hannibal decides he wishes to teach him this evening.

Just a step too close, then. Enough to raise Will’s hackles slightly and then smooth them again when he realizes there’s no threat, just his friend and doctor, just his overworked nervous system raising unnecessary alarms. If he does this enough, Will eventually will stop registering Hannibal’s proximity as a threat. It’s not that different from what Will would do with one of his dogs, really, but he doesn’t seem to recognize it when it’s directed at him.

Hannibal takes the step and watches Will’s shoulders tense, and then forcibly relax themselves. “Good. Just like that, for a few more minutes. You may need to add a bit more flour if it’s too sticky.”

Will looks back over his shoulder with a frown. “Are you aware that there are machines that do this? I know you’re not opposed to cooking techniques from this century, I’ve seen you do it.”

“Conveniences have their place, Will. For certain things, at certain times. Some things are best done by touch, even in this century. Especially when cooking for therapy or for pleasure, as we are this evening. Machines are rarely therapeutic. They lack the human element.” He reaches over Will’s shoulder to press his fingers a little harder into the dough, his hand over Will’s slightly smaller, warmer one. “You can knead harder. Pasta is much more forgiving than bread dough, it’s hard to overwork. It’s good for the dough and good for you, if you have tensions to work out.”

Will’s snort of laughter is entirely undignified but also more relaxed than anything he lets slip at work, and it pleases Hannibal to hear it. “If punching some dough is such good therapy, how do you justify your fees? Shouldn’t you just send people off to cooking classes and skip asking about their dreams?”

“Few of my clients would be allowed into my home at all, much less into my kitchen. And many of them have much drearier problems than yours, which require drearier treatment regimens than a pleasant dinner.”

Will looks skeptical at that, but turns back and kneads the dough harder. Hannibal watches him and nods approvingly, then steps back again, out of his personal space.

After a few more minutes, Hannibal declares the pasta dough ready, showing Will how it springs back just the right amount when touched, and sets it aside to rest. Will brushes his hair back from his face, ignoring the additional streak of flour he gets on his forehead in the process, and awaits further instruction. “What now?”

“Now we wait. We’ll mince some guanciale but that won’t take the whole hour the pasta needs to rest. I thought perhaps we could open that bottle you brought and sit down and talk for a bit.” Will tenses up again, almost imperceptibly. Hannibal lets him hold that tension for a moment before continuing. “Nothing therapy-related. We’ll just talk as friends. Or if you’d rather not, we can sit quietly together and enjoy the wine.”

Will accepts the glass of wine and they move into the sitting room. Hannibal had lit a fire earlier and the room is cozily warm. They sit for a while and talk idly in circles about nothing too sensitive. The merits of fresh pasta and Will’s stubborn refusal to believe it’s worth all of this. The wind howling outside. Will’s latest stray dog.

Hannibal watches the wine and the fire and undemanding company do the work of relaxing his guest. He doubts Will’s entirely aware of it as he sinks lower into his chair, eyes heavy-lidded, staring into the fire rather than making eye contact. He would love to know what Will sees in the flames.

Eventually as the conversation trails off comfortably, Hannibal moves over to the harpsichord and starts to play. He works his way through a few songs, light and slow-moving, nothing that’s going to jar Will out of his dozy comfort.

He can play this particular set of songs in his sleep, it’s all muscle memory and very little conscious thought. He lets his fingers run and his thoughts roam. In a few minutes he’ll return to the kitchen and bring out the guanciale, or what he’s passing off as guanciale for the evening. It’s close enough. A jowl is a jowl, more or less, whether its owner walked on two legs or four.

Will’s all but asleep now and Hannibal lets him nod in the firelight and plays on. He probably needs the rest, it will be as therapeutic as the dinner or the company. 

Besides, he fits in Hannibal’s house, somehow, sprawled impolitely in that chair. Flannel and dog hair and overgrown curls and all, he somehow works alongside the other artworks and fabrics with which Hannibal has so carefully decorated this room. A counterpoint that enhances, rather than detracts from, its surroundings.

It’s a pity he can’t be kept as a permanent work of art. Mounted on a wall, perhaps, like Elise Nichols. Or stretched out on the kitchen island, vivisected; he’d squirm so beautifully, and he’s already made such a mess of the kitchen, what’s a little more? Or perhaps right where he is. Will’s so relaxed right now, it would take so little to slip hands around his throat where the pulse flutters. He would make lovely sounds. His eyes shift color so readily; what color would they be when the light in them slipped away?

Hannibal does wish, from time to time, that the nature of his art weren’t quite so evanescent, living on only in crime scene photos. He can visit them in his memory when he wishes, at least, but it’s not quite the same.

But now he has Will. 

Will, to absorb Hannibal’s art and mirror it back to him through the lens of his own fear. Will, to pale and gasp and twitch enchantingly as he falls into the Chesapeake Ripper’s mind and struggles to make his way out again. Will, to see Hannibal’s work in a way no one else ever has, even if he somehow manages to turn that same perception onto Hannibal himself and miss the most important thing he should have noticed already.

Yes. Will is better kept alive. At least for the time being. He’s too new a toy to be given up just yet.

Hannibal plays on until the hour is nearly up, and then trails off as quietly as he can, but the sudden silence in the room still wakes Will from his doze. He starts to sit up straight again but Hannibal motions for him to stay.

“You seem to need the rest. Stay there; I’ll finish putting dinner together and wake you when it’s ready.”

“Mph.” Will’s not the most verbal after a nap, apparently, but he pulls it together to form sentences. “Isn’t this supposed to be my therapy? I thought I was supposed to be exercising my creative powers or something awful like that.”

“Rest is also therapeutic. You can take the lead on dessert. Have you ever whipped cream by hand?”

Will groans and sinks further down into his chair. “I refuse to believe you don’t have a mixer.”

“I have a mixer. I don’t intend to use it this evening. You should know how to make something by hand first before you take shortcuts. It’s--”

“Therapeutic,” Will chimes in. “I know. I find your methods questionable, Doctor Lecter. Can’t you just ask me invasive questions I can duck or lie about, like a normal psychiatrist?”

“I could, but I think that would be much less entertaining for both of us. And less enlightening.”

Will’s eye roll isn’t one of his best, he’s too comfortable and relaxed for that, but he gives it an effort anyway. “I don’t know what you find enlightening about me destroying your kitchen, but you’re the doctor. Call me when dinner’s ready.”

He lets his head drop again and his eyes close and Hannibal watches him for a moment before he returns to the kitchen. The pasta should be rested and ready to roll out now, and he hums softly to himself as he moves to roll it out and finish making the carbonara. 

A rich, heavy dish, the nap, and the wine - perhaps he can prevail upon Will to stay the night in one of the guest bedrooms. Another experiment in boundaries and transgression. Doctor’s orders.

**Author's Note:**

> Random Vignette Week at [Damnslippyplanet Enterprises](http://damnslippyplanet.tumblr.com) is ongoing, apparently. I'm writing too much post-S3 besotted cannibal lately; needed a bit of early-show full-on-jerk cannibal to cleanse my palate. So to speak.


End file.
